


Drabbles and Drafts

by Veektrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 10:18:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3377822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veektrose/pseuds/Veektrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm working on a thing.<br/>I will probably delete this when it gets more complete, but.<br/>There's no place else that works for posting it.<br/>Just gotta have some place to shove this for now.<br/>I have a lot of things planned for a Crowley AU.  Crobby and Crowstiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drabbles and Drafts

“You’re inebriated.”

“An astute observation, Watson.”

The android’s eyes narrow slightly, an inscrutable squint that could range anywhere from confusion to disgust.  Assuming it was even capable of disgust. Signs seemed to indicate that as an extreme possibility; its nose was slightly wrinkled at the undignified mess Crowley made, sprawled out on his sofa.

“I am, in fact, bloody  _shit_ -faced, thank you VERY much.  You’re a robot, you should be more  _precise.”_

Castiel huffed, a strange little mannerism he’d picked up recently.  Possibly from one of the Winchesters; the shine was coming off of their mutual wariness, and they were growing more and more used to each other.

“I am fairly certain that ‘shit-faced’ does not fall anywhere on a classification of blood alcohol levels, sir.”

Crowley groaned, covering his face.  “Don’t- not tonight.  Not _now_.  Don’t ‘sir’ at me.  I’m- I am a drunk fuck in his boxers, I don’t want to be  _sirred_.”  He took another swig of the stinging bourbon, lips wrapping awkwardly around the ridges of the bottle.  “Fuck off and let me be maudlin in peace, dammit.”

Bright blue eyes watched from where the android perched in the doorframe: watched the oozing puddle of melodrama and bathrobe return to its slow sink into the depths of sofa cushions.  Crowley barely registered the creaking of leather as Castiel settled into the chair opposite him, a position closer to the speakers and the tinny punk music he had on repeat.  The sharp eyes were strangely more annoying, from this closer vantage point.  He scowled and took another swig, avoiding their gaze.

“What are we listening to?”

“S’music.  You’re programmed to know what that is, aren’t you?”

An arched eyebrow.  Apparently it wasn’t a comment childish enough to merit the squint.  Crowley scrubbed at his own tired eyes.

“It’s a band I was in, alright?  The Stils’.  Back when I barely had hair on my chest.”  He smiled grimly. “Like I said; maudlin.”

Piercing blue continued to watch him steadily.  Waiting.  For an explanation?  For some kind of command?

“Lotta memories, good and bad,” he offered, trying to fill the space between them, feeling strangely awkward. The eyes continued to wait, silent. Crowley couldn’t decide if it felt more like he was being judged or carefully dissected.  

“Just missing the days before Singer looked at me like a monster, I suppose.”  The sloppy grin is more of a sneer, a dare to the android to say anything in response.  “Lead singer, Singer was.  I handled drums.  And th’business end of things.  An’ errything else.”  Somehow the saying of this sunk him further into the cushions, directed him to curl more tightly around the bourbon.  A defensive posture.  “Before we had much t’worry about besides just staying alive.”

“Usually you prefer scotch.”

Crowley mutters a brusque “Computer, off,” and the track halted mid-chorus, cutting Bobby’s words in half.

“You and Mr. Singer, you were once… friends?”

Crowley barked out a harsh laugh.  “You could call it that.  You coulda fucking called it that.  He’s- the bastard’s still-”  Fingers tightened around the bottle neck, clenching and relaxing as he struggled for the words.

“Have you ever- I know you were active before you came to me- have you ever had someone or, or something that you couldn’t live without?  Something you ached for?”

Castiel considered this somberly for a moment.  “Well, without some form of energy or fuel I would run down and cease to function, but I suspect this is not what you refer to.”

Crowley winced at the wooden sterility of the response. “Brilliant you are.  Never mind, kitten.”

Another huff of frustration- Crowley arched an eyebrow this time, surprised.  Castiel fidgeted, hesitant as he chose his words, but he went on with determination.  

“I- would still like to know.  About Singer.   About you.  What that’s like.”

Crowley stared dully across the room at his fascimilie of a man.  Unbelievable.  “You want to know what  _love_  is like?”  Castiel nodded, curt,  and Crowley chuckled darkly in response.  

“It’s hell, Pinnochio.  Love is hell.”

The android startled, brows furrowing in confusion.  A quick gesture cut off the attempted response, and Crowley shook his head.

“Just be glad you’re not a real boy, Cas.”  He shoved unsteadily to his feet, and the half-empty bottle slammed down onto the side table.  Crowley muttered darkly to himself, teetering away.  “Even if I’m not much of a one t’fucking talk.”

He staggered, nearly falling into the bookcase, but strong hands caught him, guided him the rest of the way to his bedroom.  Crowley collapsed into his blankets, a heavy weight sunk deep within the ache of his chest.  It pulled him rapidly under, but he was still peripherally aware, as consciousness faded, of pinpoint blue eyes keeping thoughtful watch over him.

——

“Where’s-  shit- BOBBY, have you seen my fucking kit?!”  

“Jesus, I’m right here, there’s no need t’YELL.  No, I haven’t seen your damn meds.”  Bobby’s frown of annoyance shifted, registering the frantic pace at which Crowley was tearing through his belongings.  “Don’t you usually keep it in… you know, just the one place?”

“Yes, and it’s not fucking  _there_.”

“Jesus, well -I- didn’t fucking take it, what the fuck would I do with it?!”

“I DON’T BLOODY KNOW, I just- fuck, FUCK, where IS IT?!”

Crowley glared daggers at Bobby from the doorframe.   One finger stabbed viciously towards him, a vengeful accusation. “Who was in the apartment while I was gone.  I know some of the band had to have come over.  Who th’fuck was here?”

Bobby’s lip curled into an incredulous sneer.  “Wh- you think somebody TOOK it?”

“I -NEVER- MOVE THE FUCKING THING, AND NOW IT’S GONE, SO YES, OF BLOODY  _COURSE_  I THINK SOMEONE FUCKING TOOK IT!”  Crowley tore at his hair, snarling at the ransacked medicine cabinet.  “Probably Fitz, that ffffucking junkie SCUM thinking it’s some weird fucking UPPER.  FUCK.”

“Look, I don’t- don’t worry, we’ll just see who shows up tomorrow with hairy palms, alright?”  Bobby grinned, trying to defuse the frazzled form in front of him.  He moved forward for a placating hug, but found himself shoved roughly out of the way.  Crowley paced in their tiny dim hallway, back and forth in the slight space between bathroom and linen closet.

“D’you think this is  _funny?  Robert?_   Think it’s just fucking laughs?  Some ffFFUCKER has my KIT, and thinks it’s something t’just- to fucking SHOOT UP WITH for KICKS, or SELL OFF at MARKET.  And worse, WORSE!  WORSE, THEY FIGURE OUT WHAT IT’S  _ACTUALLY_  FOR, AND THEN WHAT?  HAH?!”  Crowley glared up at him from inches away.  His eyes wide, he barely waited for an answer before turning around and storming into their bedroom.

Soft steps followed him, and Bobby peered through the doorway to find Crowley triple-checking his drawers, the closet, the pile of books by the bedside, the tiny suitcase he’d taken to his mother’s.

He sighed, scratching at his neck.  “Look, it’s- that shit could be for a lot of stuff, you know?  Bodybuilders use it.  Someone gets uppity about it, I’ll say it’s mine.  I’m tryna beef up or somethin’.”  

Not looking up, Crowley sagged, and slumped over onto the sheets.  Bobby took that as permission to come closer, settling down onto the side of the bed.  He ran a hand soothingly up and down his boyfriend’s back.

“…I just  _bought_  the goddamn scrip, Bobby.  That was supposed to last me.  I fucking  _need_  that.”

The larger man curled protectively around Crowley, and this time Crowley ducked his head against Bobby’s chest, curling up even more tightly to fit within the warm cage of Bobby’s arms.  He groaned plaintively, sound muffled by shirt and flesh.

“Now I have t’go back, and with  _what_  goddamn money?  We’re not exactly flush.”

“Hey now, so we skip a few beers this month.”  Bobby rubbed the fuzz of his chin into dark, feathery hair.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll figure out who it is and beat th’snot out of ‘em for you.”  Crowley harrumphed non-commitally, but wound his arms tightly around Bobby’s middle.

“I’d rather do the honors myself, thanks.”

“Then I’ll hold their arms for you, honeybun.”  Crowley snorted a laugh. Bobby smiled into his forehead, planting a soft kiss.  “..better?”

“… yeah.” The tight grip around Bobby’s waist had softened to a comfortable grasp.  “Thanks…cupcake.”

“Sweetcheeks.”

“Lambey-pie’.”

“Dollface.”

“Sugar tits.”

Bobby burst out laughing, rolling back onto the bed and hauling the smaller man atop him.  “Seriously.  Sugar tits?”

Crowley’s grin was lazy, triumphant.  “Well.  You’re sweet.  It stands to reason your tits are too.”

“Jackass.”

“Hick.”

“Don’t start with the pet names again or we’ll wind up here all night.”  

“And would you object to staying here all night, Mr. Singer?”  Crowley inched forward for a kiss, flicking open a button from the plaid shirt he was currently perched atop.

“Mmm.  I don’t know that I can say for certain, Mr. Crowley.  Y’see, somebody told me I’ve got myself a pair of sugar tits, and I’m pretty sure I oughta go take care of that.  S’how you get ants, where I come from.”

Crowley collapsed, giggling helplessly.  “You SHIT.  Shut up and get that shirt off, and we’ll see if I can’t do something about that, alright?”

“You first, punk.”  Bobby rolled them over with a smile, pinning Crowley down. They both wrestled out of their clothing as fast as buttons would allow.

They wound up there all night.


End file.
